Shades of Mourning
by Igiveup
Summary: A series of oneshots from different p.o.v.'s that all deal with Watson's grief over Holmes' death. Takes place during The Hiatus. FINAL CHAPTER IS HERE! COMPLETE! COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

_Okay, I decided to delete my old story **Reasons**, and do a revamp of sorts. This is going to be a series of one-shots that all focus on Watson's grief during The Hiatus. I'm hoping that these one-shots can work both as stand alones and as one big story. Very special thanks to everyone who had left kind reviews for **Reasons** and **The Fog.** Now, on with the show..._

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"John?" Mary asked hesitantly. She stood outside the door to the study, a tray of food in her hands. There was no reply. She tried again, "I brought you some food; may I please come in?" Still-no reply.

Mary sighed and opened the door. Her husband had obviously been smoking for some time; the room was filled with the noxious fumes. Through the gloom, Mary could just make out the flicker of the candle that sat on the desk and John's form as he leaned forward, scribbling away. It broke her heart, seeing him like that.

Sometimes, she wondered if there had been three casualties at the Reichenbach Falls: Professor James Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes, and Doctor John H. Watson.

The man whom she had married had always been so warm and friendly, his eyes sparkling with mischief. His emotions, no matter what they were, would always be right on the surface where you could see them. But now that man was gone and in his place was a total stranger who was an exact opposite of the man he had been before. His whole demeanor was now cold and distant, and his once sparkling eyes had gone dim.

Mary longed to have her husband back more than anything else in the world, but she had a sickening fear that he was gone forever. After all, it had been nearly a year and a half since Holmes had died. Not that she would ever make light out of what was obviously a devestating loss, but surely after a year, a person would begin to heal, right? Except it seemed as though John was actually getting worse-and Mary had no idea how to help him.

She had been seeing less and less of him lately; every night he would return home from his practice and lock himself in the study. Once there, he would completely lose himself in whatever story he was currently working on. Mary found it bitterly ironic that despite his being often summoned away for one adventure or another, she had actually seen far more of her husband while Mr. Holmes had still lived.

Mary coughed, partly from the smoke, and partly to get John's attention. Not surprisingly, he took no notice and continued writing. Mary set the tray of food on a table near the door and then went to open a window. "Forgive me for being a nagging wife," she said as she went over to the writing desk and peered over John's shoulder, "but you really should eat something. Why don't you give it a rest for awhile? The story will still be there when you get back."

"Mary, do you mind? I'm quite busy at the moment!"

Stung by the sharpness in his tone, Mary jerked back as if she'd been struck. John looked up, and upon seeing the hurt in her eyes, said in a softer tone: "Just let me finish up this paragraph and then I'll eat something, I promise. Thank you, darling."

"You're welcome dear," Mary whispered softly, tears welling up in her eyes. "Good night." But John had already gone back to his writing, and he did not respond. Mary slowly left the room, quietly closing the door behind her. She then went upstairs to their bedroom and stretched out on the bed.

She had been getting the most dreadful headaches lately, and tonight was no exception. They would always strike suddenly, with little or no warning, and would often be accompanied by nausea. Mary had no idea what was causing these headaches, but she secretly wondered if it was possible that she was literally worrying herself sick over John.

But if her headaches were being caused by worry, what then? It was not as if she could suddenly stop feeling on command. Mary briefly toyed with the idea of visiting John at his practice. If he became aware of the physical toll his behaviour was having on her, it might snap him out of his funk.

On the other hand, the guilt brought on by this revealtion might send him completely over the edge and leave him permanently beyond repair. Perhaps she should see a specialist in the morning. He could figure out what was causing the headaches, and maybe he'd have some advice as to how she could help John. Goodness knows, she certainly hadn't been able to do it by herself.

Mary rolled over and buried her face in John's pillow, surprised that it still smelled like him despite the fact that he hadn't slept in their bed in several months. He slept in the study now-that is, when he even bothered to sleep at all. Mary knew that he was trying to avoid nightmares. She recalled how she would be jarred out of her sleep by his anguished cries for his friend and tearful pleas for forgiveness for failing to save him.

After awhile, John had stopped coming to bed, saying that Mary would have a better night's sleep if he weren't constantly waking her up. But with his absence, Mary actually had a harder time sleeping.

Tonight, however, she was completely exhausted. John's behavior was not healthy and she was beginning to fear for his life. Mary prayed that the specialist would be able to help. The only solution that she could come up with would be if Sherlock Holmes could come back from the dead, but of course, that was quite impossible.

Mary's headache had begun to fade by this point, and she soon found herself gradually falling into an uneasy slumber.

Mary awoke the next morning to warm sunshine streaming through the window. She started to sit up, but almost immediately, the room began to spin wildly and she quickly had to lie back down again.

_This is new,_ she thought worriedly. She wondered if the dizzy spell were connected to her headaches, or if it was just an isolated incident. Perhaps she had just simply sat up too quickly. When the dizziness had passed, she sat up again, more slowly this time, and got out of bed.

After getting dressed she went downstairs. In the hallway, she ran into their servant girl, Ivy. "Good morning Ivy," Mary said kindly. "Do you know if my husband has left for work yet?"

"No ma'am, I'm sorry," Ivy said softly, staring at the floor. Mary smiled at the shy young woman.

"That's quite all right my dear, I think I'll just check the study and see if he's there." Mary began to head for the door. "Oh, and Ivy?" Ivy turned to look over her shoulder. "Could you arrange for a cab to meet me out front? Thank you dear."

Mary entered the study and found John exactly where she had left him the night before. The smoke had cleared, and he sat resting his head on the desk, using his arm for a pillow.

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_A/N: and so ends the first piece! Coming up next, Watson's p.o.v._


	2. Chapter 2

_Watson's turn. This takes place a few weeks after chapter one._

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"Mary darling, can you hear me?" Watson whispered, gently brushing the hair away from his wife's eyes. She looked so fragile and pale against the white sheets, like a china doll. Her flesh was as cold as china as well, and if it weren't for her raspy breathing, Watson could've sworn that she had already passed on to the afterlife.

_You idiot, you fool!_ He silently cursed himself. _How could you not have seen the danger that she was in! If you hadn't been so busy wallowing in self-pity... _He still remembered the day he realised the severity of Mary's condition. Every tiny detail was carved into the stone of his memory.

It had been a rainy afternoon, with crashes of thunder so loud they made the whole house shake. Watson had been summoned away because of an emergency. He recalled the annoyance that he had felt, not because he had to go out in such ill weather, but because he had been torn away from the story that he had been working on. As he was about to go out the door, he caught sight of Mary coming down the stairs.

It was here that his memory switched to slow-motion, as Mary suddenly put a hand to her head and pitched forward. Watson had run toward her, knowing with sick horror that he would not reach her in time. She fell slowly in an almost graceful arch. Then her head slammed violently against the banister, and she tumbled end over end down the remainder of the stairs. When she reached the bottom she landed hard on her right arm, which snapped like a twig beneath her. Time returned to normal speed as Watson knelt at her side. To his overwhelming relief, Mary was still alive. The relief would end up being very short lived.

Mary had sustained a concussion in her fall, along with a broken arm and a nasty series of bruises. When Watson had tried to ask her what on Earth could've caused her to fall like that, Mary avoided the question. "I must've tripped, I guess," she had said weakly, but Watson had known that was a lie. He had seen her fall with his own eyes; she hadn't tripped at all, it had looked as if she had started to faint. He gently but firmly demanded that she tell him the truth. Eventually, and very relecutantly, she revealed that she had been having dizzy spells a lot recently, and that she had been to see a specialist, who informed her that she was quite sick.

Watson was horrified by this revelation-Mary had been sick all this time, and it took her _falling down the stairs_ for him to notice? How could he have been so blind to what was happening to his own wife? He was a _doctor_ for God's sake-he should have realised what was going on long ago.

Mary's fall had sped up the process of the illness. During the night she would get overheated and kick off the blankets, only to then get so cold she'd shiver so hard her teeth would chatter. Watson would replace the blanket, and the evil cycle would repeat itself all night long. Mary lost a great deal of weight as she would always throw up anything that Watson tried to get past her lips. There were times when not even water would stay down.

The times when she was aware and coherent became fewer as the disease claimed more of her. Through it all, Watson would wish for some insane miracle that God would remove the desease from Mary's body and put it in his. He honestly did not know if he could survive another loss. As time went on, his prayers went unanswered and Watson gave up hope.

Now, as he sat at Mary's bedside watching her sleep, he cursed himself again for not realising that she was ill sooner. _It was those stupid fairy tales,_ he thought, using a term that Holmes had often used to describe his writings. _You didn't want to deal with the reality of Holmes' death, so you locked yourself away in your own private fantasy world and turned your back on the person who loved you most._ Tears of anger and despair welled up in his eyes and he angrily wiped them away.

"John?"

Mary's voice was soft and weak. Watson leaned forward until he was within her line of vision, his breath catching in his throat.

" I'm right here darling." The corners of Mary's mouth twitched slightly, a failed attempt at a smile.

"Mary, can you ever forgive me for the way I treated you? I am so very sorry," Watson whispered, his voice shaking.

He did not actually expect an answer and was quite surprised when Mary whispered; "No-nothing... to forgive. Sweet, such a kind heart... fragile heart, like glass. So lovely... "

She was delirious and rambling, and Watson was quite sure that she was not entierly aware of what she was saying, but the meaning was clear: she felt no anger towards him, and understood why he had hidden away. It gave him a bleak sense of comfort, knowing that. He gently took her hand, then leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead.

"Thank you darling," he whispered, thinking that he did not deserve such a wonderful woman for a wife. He found himself wishing that she had inherited the Agra treasure, she would've been far better off, mand maybe wouldn't be at death's door now.

Mary's breathing began to slow, and then to Watson's horror, even though he knew it would happen, Mary's features relaxed, and she ceased breathing altogether.

"No," Watson whispered, shaking her by the shoulder. "Please Mary, don't leave me." The tears he had been trying to fight back now flowed freely as he gathered Mary up in his arms. "Not again... " He had failed to save someone that he loved _again_. He should have been able to save her-he should have been able to save _both _of them.

At the Reichenbach Falls he had known that Moriarty was at large, but he had left Holmes' side anyway to go on that fool's errand. He should have realised that the letter was a fake; that Moriarty would try such a trick. Stupid, that was what he had been, and then in his grief he had become selfish as well.

He had lost everything, and he had no one to blame but himself.

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_A/N: Coming up next, Lestrade's take on things._


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Time to have Lestrade weigh in. I'm trying to keep these one-shots in chornological order as best I can. _

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As Inspector Lestrade watched Doctor Watson make his way down the street, something about the image struck him as being slightly off. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why until it suddenly occured to him-the doctor was alone. Although Lestrade had seen the dectective without the company of his biographer, he had never seen the reverse before. It was almost jarring in a way.

Lestrade noticed that the doctor was wearing a black armband. _After almost two years? Surely he can't **still** be in mourning can he?_ Then again, Lestrade had never suffered any personal losses, so how was he to know how long the appropriate length of time to mourn someone was?

He did find it odd that Watson was still mourning for Sherlock Holmes though. Lestrade did not like to think ill of the dead, but the detective had always struck him as a bit of a cold fish, and arrogant besides. Of course, Lestrade had always vauled the assistance that Mr. Holmes had provided, but felt that he, Holmes, could've toned down the attitude a bit.

The inspector had read Watson's writings, and there seemed, to him, to be quite a few instances when Mr. Holmes treated the doctor more like a servant than a friend. He couldn't understand why someone would tolerate such treatment, or mourn that person's death for so long.

Lestrade had to admit that he actually liked Watson. He seemed to be a nice enough chap, if a bit too quiet at times. He was probably a lot smarter than people gave him credit for; in the glow of Holmes' intelligence, anybody would appear slow by comparison. Lestrade had been toying with the idea of asking for Watson's assistance on a murder case that he was working on. He was sure the doctor would be an enourmous help; his friendship with Sherlock Holmes was bound to give him an advantage- no one can be friends with a person for almost ten years without _something_ rubbing off.

With a start, Lestrade saw that Watson had purchased a newspaper and was now heading towards him. Lestrade quickly averted his eyes, hoping that Watson wouldn't realise that he had been staring. But Lestrade soon saw that he needn't have worried. Watson was lost in his own little world, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lestrade watched him pass. Watson's eyes were red and swollen, and he walked slowly with his shoulders slumped forward. It was a tragic sight to behold. But what Lestrade found even more tragic was the fact that he could not imagine that Sherlock Holmes would have suffered as much had it been Dr. Watson who had died instead of him.

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_A/N:Sorry this chapter was so short, I promise to make up for it in the next one. Okay, only **one** chapter left to go. Who's p.o.v. will it be? Ah, it's a **surprise.** You'll just have to wait and see... _


	4. Chapter 4

_Time for the final chapter and to reveal the mystery character! It is none other than... drum roll please... Sherlock Holmes! I was actually planning on waiting until Christmas to post this, but due to a family crisis which will be keeping me away from the computer for some time, I decided that I had better post this now. I have to say this one important thing, just in case someone says I've screwed up the time line:_

_Sherlock Holmes came back from the dead in 1894, Hound of the Baskervilles was first published in 1902. So even though it appeared in print before The Empty House, by this time Watson already knew the truth. Watson also states at the beginning of The Empty House that the events happend ten years prior._

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When Holmes had gotten off the train, everything was so familar that he almost felt as if he had never left at all. That feeling immediately vanished the moment he showed up at 221b Baker Street. He casually unlocked the door and went inside as he had always done in the past. When Mrs. Hudson caught sight of him, she started to shriek so loudly that it was a wonder the police hadn't come running expecting an attack.

After the inital shock had worn off, Mrs. Hudson became more warm and friendly, asking if Holmes was hungry after his journey, or if he would care for some tea. Holmes had politely declined, and went upstairs to his old rooms.

Now as he looked around the flat, he thought again of how glad he was to be home. Mycroft had been even better than his word at keeping the rooms preserved. Every single detail was exactly as it had been three years ago; right down to the tabacco in the Persian slipper.

However, there was one very important detail missing, Holmes thought as his eyes landed on Watson's chair. "Watson... "

Holmes still hadn't figured out what he was going to say to his friend; how he was going to explain his actions. He couldn't even explain them to himself. He had been trying to come up with a reason for the past three years.

After he had notified Mycroft that he was still alive, he tried to convince his brother to spread the news to Watson, but Mycroft refused.

_"If you want Doctor Watson to know the truth, then it is your responsibility to tell him, not mine,"_ he had said once in a letter.

Holmes had tried to write to Watson, but being unable to explain why he had ignored Watson's cries at the Falls, he ended up throwing the letter in the trash. He would make several more attempts, but as months melted into years it only became harder to explain away his silence. He didn't want to put it off indefinitely, and finally decided that he would just return to London and meet Watson in person. A face-to-face explamation was probably a lot better than one on paper, and hopefully,easier to deliver.

Returning to the present, Holmes went to the window and peered around the edge of the shade. He gazed down at the activity below as people hustled about from one direction to the next, always in such a hurry to reach their desitnation. One man caught Holmes' eye; unlike everyone else around him the man moved very slowly, almost dragging his feet. His head was tucked against his chest and his shoulders were slummped forward-the appearance of a man who was being weighed down by some kind of heavy burden, or perhaps more than one. As if he could feel Holmes' eyes on him, the man suddenly paused and looked straight up at the window.

It was all Holmes could do to keep from crying out in shock-the man was Watson. His skin was an unatural shade of white, and his face was gaunt, with his eyes sunken in. Those eyes held more sorrow and longing than Holmes had ever seen on a human face-his stomach lurched.

Watson kept staring at the window for so long that Holmes breifly wondered if Watson had spotted him. But the expression on Watson's face never changed, nor did he make any move to enter the house. After what seemed to be an eternity, Watson finally lowered his gaze and shuffled away.

Holmes realised that he had been holding his breath and released it in a big whoosh of air. Heart pounding, he left the window and sat down in his old chair. He had observed that his "death" was not the only major loss that Watson had suffered. At some point during the years, Mary too, had passed away. That had been obvious by Watson's state of appearence: He had lost a great deal of weight and his clothes hung somewhat loosely on his frame. If Mary were alive, she certainly would have made sure that her husband had proper nurishment, and would've taken his clothes in to be fitted.

It made Holmes feel sick to know that his friend had suffered so much, and guilty for the role he played in adding to it. He was almost tempted to dart out of the house and chase Watson down but quickly changed his mind, telling himself that it would not be a good idea to cause a scene in public, and that the reunion would be better if it were made in private. His conscience hissed that he was only stalling at the idea of facing Watson, but Holmes ignored it and went into his bedroom to put on a disguise: that of an old bookseller.

He had often made a habit of fooling Watson with his disguises in the past, and thought that by revealing himself in such a familar(albeit dramatic) fashion might soften the blow of his deception. _Or leave Watson too stunned to ask questions!_ his conscience interjected.

Holmes left the flat and hobbled his way down the street, losing himself in the character he had created. There was no sign of Watson now, and Holmes wondered where his friend could have gone off to. At this time of day he was most likely to be on his rounds. Holmes tried to decide if he should just go on to Watson's residence and wait for him there or if he should find a way to keep himself occupied until a time when he knew that Watson would be home. Eventually settling for the latter, he headed for Park Lane.

He had heard of the murder of Ronald Adair and the mysterious circumstances under which it had occurred. Holmes had already formed some theories and was curious to see if they matched up with any that the police may have formed. When he arrived, he was quite shocked to see a familiar face among the crowd of people gathered outside.

Watson was deeply engaged in discussion with Lestrade. He pointed to the window and said something that Holmes didn't catch. Lestrade nodded and replied, "Not unless our killer had wings."

So, Watson had taken up trying to solve mysteries on his own then? Holmes was surprised. Although Watson had always been just as intrigued by a good mystery as Holmes was and possessed a great deal of skills in his own right, he had always been too modest and timid in putting them to practice. What had made him overcome that? Was this some sort of method of keeping his memory of Holmes alive? Holmes had noticed that Watson had stopped publishing stories after The Final Problem appeared in print; maybe he needed something new to fill the void? Work was, after all, the best antidote for sorrow. Perhaps that was also why Watson had been walking down Baker Street this afternoon; thinking of the case may have made him nostalgic.

Holmes became so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice that Watson had concluded his discussion with Lestrade. As he turned to go, Watson collided with Holmes, causing the books he was carrying to fall to the ground.

"Oh dear sir, I am terribly sorry," said Watson as ke knelt down to pick up the books. "Do forgive me, I wasn't watching where I was going." Holmes quickly snatched the books from Watson's hands, rattled that he had let his guard down. He kept his eyes low, knowing that if he looked Watson in the face, he was sure to give himself away. Very quickly, he gathered up the rest of his books and left, desperate to escape from his friend.

After he rounded the corner, he leaned against the side of the building and waited for his nerves to settle. He knew that he had better get a hand on his emotions before he tried to face Watson again. He had to remain that cold, calculating machine that Watson had so often accused him of being; it was the only way that he could possibly get through this.

After more nagging from his conscience that he was stalling yet again, Holmes finally summoned a cab and went to Watson's address where he was ushered inside by the maid and taken to Watson's office.

Watson's demeanor was polite but cold, and he seemed to be almost tired. Holmes began making small talk, trying to find the right point in the conversation to reveal himself. Once he had, he quickly diverted Watson's attention and removed the disguise.

When Watson turned back and saw Holmes, he stood as if rooted in place. He mouthed Holmes' name-a questioning look in his eyes. Then his legs gave out and he tumbled to the floor.

Holmes rushed to Watson's side. Watson had fainted? It didn't make any sense. He was a former army surgeon who had seen the horrors of the battle field. How could his nerves have become so weak that he would faint at Holmes' reappearence? Dear God, Watson must've suffered even more than Holmes had originally thought.

Very carefully, Holmes undid the collar buttons on Watson's shirt. Luckily, the brandy flask was on a table near the door, and Holmes quickly retrieved it. Kneeling at Watson's side once more, Holmes gently lifted him into a semi-sitting position and poured the brandy into Watson's mouth. Watson choked and turned his head.

"My dear Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies," Holmes said, relieved that his voice was steady, and knowing full well that what he said was a serious understatement. He would never be able to apologise enough for what he had done, and wouldn't blame Watson if he refused to ever see him again.

But the sheer delight on Watson's face when he realised that Holmes really was alive told Holmes that such a thing was not going to happen. Watson was so overcome with relief and joy that he forgave Holmes immediatly, and without question. All that mattered to him was that his friend was alive and well. It hurt Holmes far more than it would have if Watson had gotten angry.

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_And that's the end! I hope you all enjoyed the story, and thanks again to everyone who left a review, it really means a lot me._


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